Occupancy of an Empty Seat

ENTERED INTO THE 750 WORD PROJECT 2024

Finally, my favorite author had released her long awaited collection of new poems. I could hardly wait to continue reading on my ride home after work. I buried my head deep into page because the words captivated me so and it also dissuaded conversation on my commute from Newark to Philadelphia. One tires quickly of seeing men drunken and masturbating.

The poetry was, as anticipated, marvelous! I loved Anne Tice! She channeled my soul! Her words were mine unprinted. None but she understood me and I, likewise, her.

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

The train was more crowded than usual and I scooted over without even addressing the male voice nor veering from page. The rocking of carriage couldn't account for the man rubbing onto my shoulders. Witnessing drunken self pleasuring wasn't the only thing of worry for a single female commuting, getting hit on was a constant.

"I'm reading. Do you mi..." I began objecting, but stopped mid-sentence. I looked up locking eyes with a ruggedly handsome black man.

"Tice! She's my favorite! It only gets better with each succeeding page," the man smiled, "It's her most introspective work. I hope you enjoy."

I stammered saying fumbling words that we both couldn't comprehend.

"Well, it's been nice sitting by you," he said somewhat amused, "My stop's here."

The next day the man sat 2 rows in front of me.

"Did you notice the Shakespearean homage in the 2nd poem?" he shouted through sitting passengers, "'Love? Tis nothing! Til us!' Absolutely brilliant!"

He was right! How could I've missed? Tice DID reference the Bard in describing her marriage!

Troubled by my negligence in interpreting, I rolled up in bed eating leftovers thinking not of poetry, but of the intriguing black man. Who was he? The following day I made sure to save a space beside.

To my delight, he eagerly sat next to me bringing out his dog-earred, note filled compilation of Tice's works.

"Here she's describing the loss of her dog. And here, maternal ties," he confidently spoke as I stared mesmerized both by his summarized reasonings and good looks.

A hundred questions filled my head, but they all condensed into one simple one that I inadvertently blurted out clumsily, "Who are you?"

Smiling, he replied, "This is my stop."

The next day, sitting again together, he gently placed my hand in his, reciting Tice's ode, "The 7 Senses".

"None more valuable..." he repeated, placing finger gently on my forehead.

"Than heart and mind!" we joyfully cried out together.

"Your palms," he observed, "They're so soft, yet hint at an absence."

I sat speechless, fighting back tears at his perceptive abilities.

"Don't avoid the coming of scars," he exclaimed, "They can signify resilience and growth."

That Friday, unable to sit together, I could only see his head above the headrest towards the forward seats. Taking whatever of him I could, I sat admiring the smooth complexion on the nape of his neck, wondering its saltiness and his unknown given name.

"It's Michael," he intuitively obliged upon exiting his stop, saying no more.

I could not stop thinking about the man throughout the weekend. Our interactions ignited feelings that caused me to touch parts of my body long aching for more than poetry. Could his observations on my soul include the lusting body?

Friday through Sunday, I took continuous pleasure in imagining his fingers, mouth, and cock having access to my innermost parts - in bed, laying on couch, in the bath, and everywhere!

Emotions rushing to the fore and with legs spread wide, fingers feverishly circling my engorged clit, I cried out from my millionth orgasm, "All this from a brush! All this for want of his touch once more!"

Head dizzy and with pressure steadily mounting for release again, I suddenly realized... I'd been living not living! Existing in a loop eschewing intimacy, indulging in reading poetry and, yet, obstinately ignoring the rich reservoir of learned experience which sources of great prose drank from.

I sat down praying for an inspirational sliver of Tice's talent and picked up a pen and started writing:

"A polite inquiry into the occupancy of an empty seat
My eyes not straying from the pages that engaged me
As I moved my purse over an inch
The shoulder to shoulder grazing
Annoyed me enough to grant you attention
Encountering a smile that caused my very soul to flinch."

Come Monday, I anxiously hoped Michael would appreciate reading and accept my poetic invitation.